27 May


miserable man photo images_zps44788bf3.jpg

Parson Grimwolde was no god-fearing man. His forename had been given him by doting parents when he had been the long-awaited little cherub they had dreamed of having and who hadn’t arrived until they feared they were getting too old themselves to become parents. He had, in fact, been totally unexpected in the way that most surprises are, and as a welcome to the world they had put their heads together and arrived, in wreaths of smiles, at his Christian name.

What shall we call the angel?” he asked.

He’s a gift from above,” cooed she.

Then we’ll call him Parson!” exclaimed he.

That’s perfect!” gasped she, and they made love with the name Parson ringing in their heads.

So he had passed through life as Parson, been teased at school by flighty girls and scruffy boys who thought it great fun to mock him for his name, had been turned down at many a job interview because the last thing a potential employer wanted was a parson on his books and had eventually reached middle age as a bitter and loveless creature, more devil than man if the truth were known.

He believed, that as a man, he should be served. It was in the Good Book, so it must be right, mustn’t it? And there was no woman in his life to serve him. He had to serve himself – and that was plain wrong.

He discovered that it is easy for a man to become grievously misogynist when he’s got the wrong name. In his teens he yearned for many a rosy-cheeked wench and had to settle for the joys of secret masturbation. In his twenties he eyed the newly-wed angels as they draped themselves on the shoulders of their adoring beaus, and wanted one for himself, but they never came his way because when they saw how his face had soured over time, how his own name had caused rejection after rejection until his heart sunk at the thought of womankind and his mouth turned down as a regular thing, they teasingly laughed at his advances and found more acceptable and even uglier men to partner.

So Parson Grimwolde went through life as a reject. Yet, before his demeanour had been molded by time and the word Parson, he had sometimes been looked on as handsome and desirable. Young women had searched him out and rapidly cooled when he’d introduced himself. The Grimwolde bit had been bad enough, but Parson? That put the kibosh on any future relationship.

Then, in his sixties and giving up love as something other people enjoyed, he fell in love and, to the amazement of all who knew him, the angel he met fell in love with him. She was seven years his junior, which was good, but her name was Ann Summers and she understood the thing about names. She, poor soul, had been blessed with the same nomenclature as a popular commercial business that dealt, primarily, with sex toys for ladies as well as a wide range of explicit garments few women of her age would be seen dead wearing. Her own name had been a greater obstacle to happiness and a full life than had Parson’s. After all, what decent, well-brought up young man would ever admit to escorting Ann Summers to the ball?

Ann Summers became Ann Grimwolde, and she was suddenly and brieflty happy and contented. But Parson wasn’t. He discovered almost immediately that the joys of loving that he’d long believed he’d missed out on weren’t all they were cracked up to be and even demanded personal effort when he felt weary and in need of sleep. Added to that, Ann Grimwolde was far from willing to serve him as he thought she should. They both had employment (of a sort, though he was zooming towards retirement) and yet he expected her to cook and clean and wash his soiled underwear and attend to his personal needs at a moment’s notice whilst he recovered from the day’s labour by prostrating himself in front of the television set and yawning quietly to himself.

You should have been a parson in deed rather than name,” she moaned. “That would have suited you and your misogynist ways! You’re just like one of those old testament types who believed women should be slaves in the home and beaten if they fail to please! That’s what they believed, and you’re just like that!””

I’m no misogynist!” he protested. “I love you. I really do.”

You love me because I’m your slave,” she sniffed. “You love me because I do everything for you as well as go to work where, incidentally, my wages are more than yours!”

I’m a man,” he explained. “Men don’t do domestic stuff. That’s woman’s work. Men need to recover from their day’s toil. It’s only right. It’s always been like that. It’s the natural order of things”

She shuddered, and retreated to their bedroom, where she did a breat deal of thinking on her own. And in that thinking she saw, bright and clear and in precise detail, that she was on to a loser.

I was better off as plain Ann Summers,” she told herself. “This man’s a toad! Do this, do that while I do nothing. Bah!”

So, without any more ado, she packed her bags and left him.

Parson Grimwolde found that once again he had to wash his own pants. He discovered that his kitchen skills weren’t a match on those of his deserted wife and he reflected that, inconvenient as it had sometimes been, sex with her had been marginally better than sex with his hand.

His joys had been short-lived.

But that had been his destiny. It was written in the letters of his name. Parson Grimwolde, miserable misogynist extraordinaire, was a solitary and lonely man and that just had to be that.

© Peter Rogerson 26.05.14


4 Responses to “WHAT’S IN A NAME”

  1. pambrittain May 27, 2014 at 7:02 pm #

    This is so sad, but it serves that Parson right.

  2. Peter Rogerson May 28, 2014 at 8:17 am #

    I wonder if our names can contribute to our personalities?

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